


Lot Lizards and other Knaughty Things

by Leela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Knotting, M/M, Prostitution, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You got a name?" Stiles asks. "Or something I should call you? Not that you have to tell me, of course. Most guys don't. But I'm kind of a talker during sex, just so you know, and it's always good to call out the right name. Some guys take it personally if you get it wrong, even if they don't give you a fucking clue about their name."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lot Lizards and other Knaughty Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eeyore9990](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/gifts).



> **Beta:** @aislinntlc
> 
> Written for eeyore9990 as a late birthday gift. Hope you like it, bb. Oh, and definitely inspired by [this picture from Dylan O'Brien's Teen Vogue shoot](http://mtv.mtvnimages.com/uri/mgid:file:http:shared:public.articles.mtv.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/dylan-obrien-teen-vogue-3.jpg?width=1200&quality=0.8&maxdimension=2000).

Derek hits his brakes and his horn, snarling under his breath at the asshole in the tiny sports car who just cut in front of his truck. The four-wheeler doesn't seem to notice, speeding up even more, zigzagging the car around the traffic.

"Go," Derek says. "Far away from me. I don't want to be caught in the backlash when you fuck up."

Stretching carefully, Derek checks his GPS against the clock. He's making much better time today. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches back into his stores and snags a bottle of water and a package of organic deer jerky. 

Another couple of hours driving, and it's obvious that he's going to have to stop somewhere near Beacon Hills. The unexpectedly clear highway driving has blown his careful planning. His hand tightens on the reinforced steering wheel, and he releases a deep breath.

"Fuck."

He purposefully hasn't been back to Beacon County, never mind Beacon Hills, since the fire. He almost did when he felt Laura's death, but that urge vanished beneath the wave of insane burning anger, of _Come to me_ that followed the sensation of her dying. 

Whoever killed her, whoever stole her alpha powers was not going to lead a pack that Derek wanted to join. While curled in a ball on his bed, claws digging holes into his palms, fangs cutting into his lips, he briefly considered going back, trying to save Beacon Hills from its newest monster but he fought that off too. Consciously, with barely a second thought for the people who hadn't cared when his family was burned alive like medieval witches, Derek severed his pack ties and went omega.

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticcing, Derek grits out, "You can do this." 

It isn't anything like encouraging, but he's been driving for about ten hours and he has to stop sometime soon. The company he's leased to for this trip won't use him again if he doesn't stick to their rules, and the electronic logging equipment means they'll know if he drives too long. He can probably get away with cutting his break to an hour or so, but that's about the shortest he can manage. 

Tension is strumming Derek's nerves, bringing the wolf far too near the surface by the time he pulls into the truck stop parking lot. Luck brings him a spot in the back, up against the curb. It's close enough to the trees and surrounding hills that it almost feels like home. 

Moving cautiously, more slowly than usual, Derek slips out of his cab and locks it behind him. He prowls around the truck, giving the tires and trailer a quick visual scan, before heading for the building. 

The truck stop is a mom and pop kind of place, but it's got showers, a TV room, and a room with free wifi. He pokes around for a bit. The buffet doesn't look bad, but the area smells too much of other people for him to be able to eat from it. Luckily, the place has a made-to-order sandwich counter too, run by an older woman swathed in purple cotton. He gets her to make him a couple of chicken wraps with nothing but meat and cheese and eats them while he looks around.

He's showing his credentials to get access to the trucker area when the squeal of brakes catches his attention. No one else seems to care, but Derek can't help moving to a spot near the window where he can see without being seen. He makes it there just in time to see the passenger-side door of a fancy cab-sleeper open and a man tumble out of it and land on his ass on the ground.

"Same to you, asshole," the guy yells, flipping a finger in the truck's direction. "Weren't worth the money you paid anyway."

In reply, the trucker slams the door shut and drives off, tires only a few feet from the guy on the ground. 

The guy doesn't even flinch. He just pushes himself to his feet and dusts off his jeans and white t-shirt, barely managing to do anything but smear the black streaks a bit deeper into the fabric. 

"Fuck," the guy sighs, and starts to walk. He limps the first few steps, but then stops to stretch and twist in a way that has Derek's dick, and his wolf, paying attention. Then, walking normally, the guy makes his way over to the old Pepsi vending machine out front. 

"Lot lizard," Derek murmurs to himself. 

The guy is used, filthy and dusty from his brush with the parking lot and probably stinking of whatever he did with the other trucker, but neither Derek's wolf nor his dick give a shit. Not when the guy leans against the vending machine like nothing matters. Not when he flicks off the bottle cap and wraps his long fingers around the neck. And definitely not when he raises the bottle to his lips, tipping his head back and baring his long neck, adam's apple moving slowly as he chugs down the soda.

Derek is only a couple of steps from the exit when he feels a hand on his arm. He glances over to see Jeanie with a determined expression on her face.

"I know what he looks like," she says, "but you need to treat that boy right. He doesn't deserve even half the shit that's happened to him these last few years."

Derek raises an eyebrow at her, because there's no point in even bothering to respond to her useless threat.

"You think we don't take care of our own around here?" She gives him a wicked grin. "That bastard who just dumped Stiles out is going to get _special_ treatment at every truck stop for a couple of hundred miles."

That makes Derek wince, but he doesn't let it show. He just shakes off her hold and heads outside.

The guy, Stiles, is back to leaning against the vending machine, half-empty bottle held loosely in one hand. When Derek gets closer, Stiles straightens up and comes to stand in front of him. 

"Drink?" Stiles holds the bottle out to Derek. This close in Derek can see the almost invisible line of a well-healed scar up near Stiles' hairline. Stiles' scent is barely fouled, only a faint trace of something that must be the remnants of the other trucker's not-so-intimate touch. 

When Derek doesn't respond, Stiles shrugs and takes a small sip from the bottle. "No harm, no foul if it's not the kind of soda you like."

Before Stiles can back away, Derek asks, "And if it's the kind I like?"

Stiles stops dead, and a slow grin spreads across his face. He offers the bottle again. "Then you can drink as much as you can afford."

Reaching out, Derek takes the bottle from Stiles. He fits his lips to the mouth of the bottle, tasting something that must be Stiles. Staring straight into Stiles' eyes, he tilts the bottle upward, drains it, and hands the empty back to him.

"All right," Stiles crows, his hands flailing so much he almost drops the bottle. "Your place or..." he glances around, "your place?"

For a moment, Derek considers taking Stiles back inside and paying for a shower, getting him to wash off the dirt and other trucker, but his wolf whines a silent protest. The urge to erase those scents himself, to replace them with his own is almost overwhelming. 

So Derek starts walking away, heading for his truck. He can hear the clink of glass hitting glass as Stiles drops the bottle in the recycling, and then scrambles to catch up. 

"You got a name?" Stiles asks. "Or something I should call you? Not that you have to tell me, of course. Most guys don't. But I'm kind of a talker during sex, just so you know, and it's always good to call out the right name. Some guys take it personally if you get it wrong, even if they don't give you a fucking clue about their name."

Biting back a laugh, Derek shakes his head. His keys jingle as he pulls them out to open the cab. He touches his fingers to the hidden keypad and enters the combination to disarm the alarm. Then he steps back so Stiles can enter.

Stiles swings himself into the cab with the ease of experience and more grace than Derek would have guessed. There's a moment when his ass is right in front of Derek's face, almost close enough to bite. So damn tempting, but Derek restrains himself as he follows Stiles into the cab. He resets the lock and alarm before heading into the small sleeper. 

"Nice," Stiles says, and seems to be sincere about it. He's standing next to the bed, hunching slightly as if he's afraid he'll hit his head. His fingers are twitching as they rest on the small shelf where Derek's family mementos are secured. 

Derek isn't sure what he'll do if Stiles touches something, but then Stiles stares at something on the shelf. When he turns around, his eyes are wide. He seems more shocked than scared.

"What?"

Stiles jumps at Derek's question and seems to shake himself. "Nothing," he says, heartbeat betraying his lie.

Derek thinks about calling him on it but dismisses the idea. He's never going to see Stiles again so what difference does it make. "How much?" he asks instead, because that feels like safer ground. 

Flopping back on Derek's bed, his legs hanging off the side, Stiles says, "Depends on what you want and what you're packing."

"Everything and more than you can imagine."

Sitting up, Stiles laughs and licks his lips. Derek can't help but follow the sweep of his tongue, want to suck it, feel it around his dick. He moves to stand between Stiles' legs, trapping him on the bed. 

Pulling out his wallet, Derek grabs the wad of bills and holds it out. "This enough?"

"Yeah." Stiles' voice cracks a little, turning the word into two syllables. "For that, whatever you want, dude." 

"Derek, not dude," Derek says. "Remember that." 

Stiles nods. When he stands up, Derek steps back into the entranceway, still blocking Stiles' exit. He watches as Stiles undresses, not making a show of it, but doing it efficiently, folding his dirty jeans and t-shirt on the laptop table at the end of the bed and tucking socks into his shoes and placing them underneath. 

For a second, Stiles just stands there and lets Derek look at him. He's broader than Derek thought, more muscled and not as skinny. His white skin is dotted with moles and marked with bruises, old and new. Completely unfazed by the intensity of Derek's attention, Stiles walks up to him, presses against him, and runs his hand up Derek's sides, under his t-shirt.

"Tell me what you want?"

Derek slides his hand around Stiles' neck, grips him by the nape briefly before twisting his hands in Stiles' hair. He pulls Stiles' head back, taking a moment to admire the stretch of Stiles' neck, the taut tendons, the flutter of his adam's apple. Then he bends down and rests his blunt human teeth against Stiles' skin, right over his jugular. 

He can feel Stiles twitch, sense the rise of his tension and almost fear. Somehow, and Derek has no idea how, he's sure of two things: Stiles knows about werewolves and he's figured out that Derek is one.

Breathing deeply and inhaling Stiles' scent sends an ache of need through Derek. His fangs prick Stiles' skin, drawing a few beads of blood. The taste of Stiles is on his lips, and he can't help himself, has to ask, "Anything?" Even though Stiles already agreed, Derek needs that reassurance.

Digging his fingers into Derek's ribs, not quite hard enough to hurt, Stiles pulls away slightly and says, "Show me your eyes."

Derek blinks at him, startled for a moment, before he realizes what Stiles is asking. He settles his stance, firms his control, and flashes his eyes.

"Blue. Huh. Never seen that before." Stiles traces Derek's left eyebrow. "They're almost as gorgeous as your human eyes."

There's nothing to say to that, so Derek slides his hands up Stiles' ass, lifts him up and tosses him on the bed. Stiles laughs as he bounces, spreading his legs, and suddenly Derek knows one thing more. Stiles hadn't let the asshole suck him or fuck him. 

A growl vibrating through him, unable to delay long enough to get undressed, Derek toes off his shoes and get onto the bed. He crawls over and settles between Stiles' legs, pushing them further apart. He noses at the back of Stiles' right knee, licks and nips at the skin. 

Stiles groans. "You don't have to." 

"Nope." Derek pauses on his way up Stiles' inner thigh to suck a bright red mark on the pale skin. Then he pops a claw and traces a line from there to the crease of Stiles' thigh. 

That earns him a shuddery "Fuck" from Stiles and takes him from half-hard to fully erect. Stiles' dick curves temptingly, but Derek ignores it in favor of nuzzling Stiles' balls. 

"God, fuck. don't you..." Stiles rolls his hips. "Seriously, don't you want me to suck you or something?"

"Nope," Derek repeats, pressing the pointed tip of his tongue against Stiles' taint, making him cry out. He licks up to the head of Stiles' dick, quick and sloppy, then pulls off. 

He has to stop at that moment. He's barely touched Stiles, and yet his taste brings Derek's wolf surging to the forefront, forcing him to fight for control. To give himself time, he strips off his shirt and tosses it in the direction of the cabinet where he stashes his dirty laundry. His jeans are next, more awkward because he doesn't want to get his dick caught in the zipper. 

When Derek's naked, he looks at Stiles, at the way he's got his arms up over his head, those fucking hands wrapped around the metal posts at the corners of the bed. Stiles' pupils are blown, his lips wet, and Derek has a crazy urge to kiss him. But you don't kiss whores, he tells himself, as he leans down to press his mouth to one of Stiles' nipples.

It hardens under Derek's lips, and he swirls his tongue over it, sucks it, draws it up into a peak. He repeats it with the other nipple, moving from one to the other, until they're a dark red-brown and Stiles is arching under him. 

His claws out, Derek spreads his fingers until he has a sharp point against each nipple. "I want to mark you," he says, curling his fingers as he fights the need to mark, to possess. "Scratch swirls of red on your white skin."

"Asshole." Stiles bucks up into Derek, rubbing their dicks together, sending a spark of electric need through Derek. "Don't tease the teaser."

In answer, Derek drags his claws lightly down Stiles' torso until his hand rests on the curve of Stiles' hip. Red blooms in their wake, wavering raised lines that betray the closeness of Derek's wolf, the shakiness of his control. 

He forces his fingers back to human before he reaches for the lube and condoms on the shelf over his head. He twists open the jar, letting the lid drop to the bed, dips his fingers into the lube, and raises them to check that he's got enough. They glisten in the light.

Stiles sucks in an audible breath. "You, god, I don't even know," Stiles says. "Have you ever even hired a hooker before, because you don't have to..." 

"Anything," Derek snarls. "And, yes, I have, but that doesn't mean I don't want my money's worth." Then, because he doesn't want to hear the next protest that Stiles is about to say, Derek thrusts two fingers into Stiles' hole. 

"Gnnnngg." Stiles' head goes back, showing off that goddamn neck again, and he rotates his hips, dragging Derek's fingers in deeper.

A half-smile curves Derek's lips, as he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in again. Over and over, only stopping to add more lube and a third finger. By the time he's got four fingers inside Stiles, the lube is dripping out of Stiles' hole. Stiles is riding Derek's fingers, chanting words and syllables almost mindlessly, cursing Derek and begging him in the same breath.

Derek says, "Stiles," hearing the feral vibration underlying his voice.

"Derek."

"Look at me." 

When Stiles obeys, Derek rises up onto his knees. He rolls the condom over his dick and slicks it up with the same fingers that were inside Stiles. He doesn't move for a moment, just watching Stiles' fingers flex around the posts, and his eyes dilate until only a thin rim of brown surrounds the blackness of his pupils. 

"Come on," Stiles says, wrapping his legs around Derek's waist and digging his heels into Derek's lower back. "Gimme some of that."

It's such a horrible attempt to be sexy that it surprises a laugh out of Derek. To make up for it, he pushes Stiles' legs back and apart, nearly bending Stiles in half as he rests the head of his dick against Stiles' hole.

"Yes!" Stiles twists his hips, and without Derek having to move, his dick pops through the ring of muscle and is inside Stiles. 

Leaning down, resting his elbows on the bed, Derek thrusts in the rest of the way. He covers Stiles with his body, wraps one hand around Stiles' wrist, and rests the thumb of the other hand on Stiles' nipple. He doesn't kiss Stiles, but he brings their faces close enough that he can feel Stiles' exhales brushing over his lips.

He needs, oh fuck how he needs, and he has no idea how that's possible. Doesn't care either. He pulls out, pushes back in, over and over, long thrusts and short twists of his hips, changing angles, catching Stiles' prostate as often as he can.

"God, you... you... damn it." Stiles keeps on staring into Derek's eyes, licking his lips, meeting Derek stroke for stroke. "Just... more. I want... God... please."

The _please_ twines through Derek, driving his need higher, settling in the base of his dick and stealing his control. He grinds in harder with tiny stuttering movements of his hips, needing more, needing to give more and more and more.

Then Stiles arches back, striping his release between them. Derek seals his lips over the pulse in Stiles' throat, imprisoning the howl that rips through him as his knot swells, shredding the condom and drawing a broken cry out of Stiles.

Shocked and overwhelmed, Derek freezes. He's never... this has never... not with anyone. He tightens his grip on Stiles' wrist, grounding himself. He wants. He needs. He _oh fucking god_ cannot let Stiles go, but he doesn't know how to keep him. 

Stiles makes an incoherent noise that turns into a long drawn out, "Fuck." 

Unable to stand feeling so far from Stiles, even though he's right on top of him, Derek slides his arms under Stiles. He sits back on his heels and pulls Stiles up with him. Stiles twists his hips, and Derek's knot settles deeper into him.

They rock back and forth, slow and steady. Fire builds at the base of Derek's spine, flashes through him, and opens him up. He starts to come and come and come, until he's so lost in the feeling, the possession, that all he can do is hold on to Stiles.

When it's over, they sit there, clinging to each other, breathing heavily. Stiles smells of sweat and sex and Derek. Pressing his lips against the curve of Stiles' neck and shoulder, Derek doesn't move until Stiles does.

Looking a little wild, Stiles says, "What the hell was that even? I mean, a knot, right? A motherfucking knot. I thought that was a myth." His laugh is half-hysterical, cracking at the edges, as he adds, "But then werewolves." 

"I didn't know," Derek admits before he can stop himself. He's so shaken, so off-base that he thinks he'd tell Stiles just about anything right now. "No one ever told me, and it hasn't happened. Not with anyone else."

He shifts positions a little, and his nose wrinkles. "And ewwwwwww. So gross."

The trickle of come from Stiles' ass is damp and sticky against Derek's balls and thighs. It's him, he did this, and he's swamped with a crazy urge to flip Stiles over, ass in the air, and lick him out. 

He doesn't, but only because he's not sure how Stiles would react. His wolf whines unhappily as Derek pulls out of Stiles' carefully and then uses up his precious supply of hot water to clean him up. 

Things get awkward after Derek tosses the towel into his dirty laundry and starts getting dressed. Stiles pushes himself up, giving the wet spot on Derek's bed an undecipherable look, before he pulls on his jeans. 

Derek leans against the side of the entranceway. Then he decides that might give the impression that he's trapping Stiles there, and yeah, he totally wants to just get into the driver's seat and haul ass out of there, but he can't. He shouldn't. He mustn't.

Pushing his bare feet into his boots and reaching for his phone, Derek makes his way out of the truck so he can't change his mind. He paces up and down, occasionally kicking at a tire. _He's a lot lizard_ , he reminds himself, _not someone you'd take home to..._

An ache knifes through his heart, because no one would give a damn and there's nowhere to take anyone home.

"Heeeey." Stiles jumps out, almost tripping on the curb. He limps a few steps and rubs his ass. "That was, well, you know, like nothing ever." 

Moving toward him, Derek crowds him against the side of the truck and breathes in his scent one last time. 

I gotta go," Stiles says, placing his palm in the middle of Derek's chest and pushing lightly. 

Derek resists for a second, but then, ignoring the whining of his wolf, lets Stiles go. He fumbles in his back pocket for a card and thrusts it at Stiles. "Here," he says. Then before Stiles can respond, he swings up into his cab and starts it up. 

He's almost at the truck stop exit when he hears Stiles say, too low for anyone but a werewolf to hear him from this distance, "Don't come back unless you're willing to stay. We've already got one Hale fucking up Beacon Hills."

The engine whines as Derek fumbles it, but he recovers quickly and hits the accelerator. His heart is thumping, his hands are shaking, and he merges a little raggedly. 

"Another Hale," he breathes. "How the hell..."

He grits his teeth and checks his log. He's got a contract and a load that he can't afford not to deliver. But after that, if he pulls in every favor he's owed, he can clear his schedule, and...

The loud honking of a horn brings Derek's focus back to the road. He straightens out the truck, thankful that he didn't drift too far over. The last thing he needs right now is an accident. 

With the ease of long experience, he locks Beacon Hills, his childhood, his family, and now Stiles, away in the darkest corner of his mind and turns on the radio. 

The only difference this time is that he knows he'll be back.


End file.
